


you opiate this hazy head of mine

by hiensou



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, aka 10k of pointless fluff, and then a handjob bc i couldnt NOT be nasty im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiensou/pseuds/hiensou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haruka knows, without a doubt, that although the words are ridiculous and embarrassing and fever-induced, they are <i>sincere</i>. Only Makoto, that unabashed rom-com script of a human, would be so nauseatingly sweet, and only Haruka, oddly victimized and blessed at the same time, would be the target of his boundless affections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you opiate this hazy head of mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Makito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makito/gifts).



“I keep telling you, I’m not sick.”

“I’ve taken care of a sick Makoto a hundred times before, I’d spot your running nose and tired eyes from a different continent.”

“I’m not sick!” Makoto insists further, flying forward in his seat as a sneeze rattles through his body, “ _Achoo!_ ”

“You know, that’d be a lot more convincing if you weren’t spraying me all over with your mucus.”

“Ew, Haru, don’t say mucus,” Makoto snivels helplessly, squeezing the other boy’s shoulder with a hand in plea. “I’m fine though, seriously. You said you cleaned earlier today, right? There are probably dust particles still flying around, making me sneeze.”

“That’s bullshit,” Haruka deadpans, flicking Makoto’s forehead with his fingers, in the gentlest way possible. “You’re not going to school tomorrow, you need to rest, and you shouldn’t be out contaminating others, either. I’ll stay home too and make sure you don’t die.”

“No, Haru,” Makoto says with a tone so firm Haruka feels his superiority waver momentarily, but he makes sure to deepen his frown and instantly resumes his position as The Wiser of The Two; The Caretaker, even as Makoto drones on, “I get that I shouldn’t spread my cold but I can’t ask you to skip school just because my nose is running! I’ll be fine on my own, I promise. If I tell mom I’m staying home I know she’ll make enough soup to feed all of Iwatobi, so really, I’ll be okay.”

Haruka simply shakes his head and stands up to make a second round of tea for them. They’re currently seated in his living room, halfway through a movie that Haruka decided to pause in order to complain about Makoto’s constant sniffling. They did have subtitles on, but still, it was annoying. And it was making Haruka worry. No matter what the brunet claimed, he was absolutely terrible at taking care of his own diseases, whether they were mundane colds or broken bones. This is why Haruka had taken it upon himself to be Makoto’s official baby-sitter whenever he catches something — of course, with Mrs. Tachibana’s occasional helping hand.

“Where are you going?” Makoto drapes an arm over the backrest of the couch, eyes following Haruka as he makes his way to the kitchen, “Are you doing that thing where you ignore me and pretend you’ve won the argument?”

“I _have_ won the argument,” Haruka states tersely, filling the tea pot with enough water for five, just for the hell of it, “There are blankets in the basket by the couch, you can—”

“I know where you keep the blankets,” Makoto mutters through pouting lips, leaning over to the square wooden basket by the side of the sofa, “And stop ordering me around, you’re not my mom.”

“Stop _sulking_ ,” Haruka can’t help but smile to himself as he sets up their cups while the water boils, “I’m curing you, you should be thanking me like spitfire the way you usually do.”

Makoto pouts even harder despite knowing Haru isn’t looking, and wraps two thin blankets around him in a makeshift cocoon. He doesn’t speak until Haruka re-enters the room, setting their cups down on the small table in front of them. “Stupid Haru,” he mumbles, knowing he’s taking on the exact attitude he’s always telling Ren and Ran to drop.

Haruka smiles warmly at him, as if he’s the most endearing thing the boy has ever seen, bottom lip protruded and arms folded over his broad chest like an over-sized baby. He leans in and pecks Makoto’s cheek, brushing some stray hairs away from his face. “Start the movie.” he says, and Makoto can’t help but blush beneath the tender affection of Haruka’s stare and obey, pressing the big green button on the remote control.

* * *

Makoto wakes up the next morning on Haruka’s couch, and instantly panics a little because he knows by the assaulting rays of the sun through the pale curtains that school probably started several hours ago, and he can’t remember neither calling in sick nor telling his mother he was staying over at Haru’s. Before he can as much as call out for his boyfriend, however, a violent coughing fit rattles his body, clawing through his throat and jerking him forwards, over and over until it subsides. He lies back again with a feeble, wavering moan of displeasure, and sees through the corner of his eye Haruka walking into the room, carrying a large cup of what is probably steaming hot green tea. Makoto is suddenly very, very thankful for Haruka’s existence, despite his grumpiness over not getting his way the day before.

“How are you feeling?” Haruka asks, and Makoto only shakes his head in response. “I made you tea.”

“Thank you, Haru,” he rasps out, attempting to sit up on the sofa. Dizziness seizes his vision and he sways a bit, breathing a “whoa” as he flops right back down again. Haruka sets the mug down and lays a warm hand on Makoto’s upper arm.

“Easy,” he murmurs, helping the brunet to a sitting position, “Don’t move too quickly, you know how unstable you get when you have a fever.”

“No, I don’t,” Makoto muses with a light chuckle that tears at the sensitive insides of his throat, “Right now I feel as if I don’t really know _anything_. God. Except that I’m really thankful for you being here with me.”

“Told you you were sick,” Haruka shakes his head and sits down beside Makoto, securing the blankets around him. “Don’t get up for anything. If you need something, tell me and I’ll get it for you, okay? I really don’t want you to go unconscious like you did last time you—”

“Haru, _please_ ,” Makoto’s face scrunches up and he shakes his head, but finds that the inside of his skull feels fuzzy and vulnerable, so he makes a mental note of not shaking it again, “I’m not gonna pass out on your floor three times in a row.”

“Good. I don’t want to have to take you to the hospital again.”

“No, me neither… The walls there are _awfully_ white. It hurt my eyes.”

An amused huff of air leaves Haruka. “Your eyes are sensitive from the virus,” he says, as if explaining to a child being sick for the first time, “Do you want me to close the curtains, by the way?”

“You make it sound so serious when you use the word ‘virus’,” is Makoto’s response, and he leans forward to take the cup in his hands, gasping at the warmth emanating from the moss-green porcelain. “Ah, hot…”

Haruka stands up and pulls the curtains closer together, although their creamy white colour certainly doesn’t do a very good job at keeping the sunlight out.

* * *

Haruka tries to keep count of all the times Makoto tells him he shouldn’t skip school because of him, how he’ll fall behind and it’ll be Makoto’s fault, how Makoto will surely get him sick too, but Haruka loses count after a while, and decides to ignore the other boy when he spouts this unnecessary nonsense. When Makoto tells Haruka he _needs_ to be in class and that if he really wanted to help Makoto out, he’d be taking notes for him instead of collecting used tissues to toss in the trash, Haruka simply answers by asking if he’s hungry and wants some soup. When Makoto says that he could just go home and have his mother fuss over him instead, Haruka asks which movie he’d like to watch. When Makoto sobs out an “I’m fine, Haru! Please stop dabbing my forehead already!” Haruka goes to wring the humid water out of it and soak it in new, ice-cold droplets instead, before returning to Makoto’s side and pressing the cloth to his wrinkled brow.

“By the way, Haru,” the brunet says around four in the afternoon, half-watching the American chick-flick they settled for as Haruka zapped through the channels earlier, and half-falling asleep with his head resting on Haruka’s shoulder, “I never called mom to tell her I’d be staying over here… Actually, I don’t remember ever deciding to, either… Or falling asleep on your couch… I hope I didn’t hurt you in my sleep, by the way, I know you say I can get kind of clingy, especially when I’m…” Makoto sighs heavily, before admitting the word, “Sick.”

Haruka pets his hair with soft, graceful fingers, “I called her after you fell asleep and said we were both coming down with something, so she said she’d call the school. Oh, and we should also expect her to come over with soup sometime before she cooks dinner for the rest of your family, so I’ll need to act sick, just so you know.”

Makoto huffs quietly, but offers no comment.

“And don’t worry, you’re pretty weak when you’re sick, so it wasn’t a hard grasp to get out of.”

Makoto laughs sheepishly, before breaking into another coughing fit.

 

As the ending credits roll by in sync with an up-beat love song, Haruka glances down at Makoto, who has — unsurprisingly — fallen asleep on his shoulder. He runs a hand through Makoto’s thick, bronze locks and sighs quietly, thinking how even when feverishly flushed and with pearls of sweat coating his hairline, Makoto’s sleeping face is sweet and soothing like a child’s. His jaw is strong, the angles sharp and masculine; his eyebrows are thicker than Haruka’s own; and his nose is straight, an exact copy of his father’s, but somehow, there’s something boyish about him when he’s dozed off. He looks vulnerable, tranquil, like the immeasurable billows of tenderness that Haruka knows exists within him all gather on his features, and he thinks that if he watches him closely enough, he can make out what he’s dreaming just by the movement of his eyes and the way his breath hitches occasionally. After a while, he stands up and eases Makoto into a lying position, crouching on the floor beside him to dab the damp cloth over his warm face, despite knowing that the fabric went lukewarm a long time ago.

It feels nice, Haruka thinks, to see Makoto who is always fussing, finally being fully at ease. Makoto who is always taking things upon his own shoulders, always restricting himself and repressing his urges behind assuring albeit contrived smiles; finally putting up no act, no guard, no if’s or but’s. Finally being taken care of, rather than the opposite. Haruka worries about Makoto overworking himself way more often than he allows himself to acknowledge. Unease stirs within him and he can’t help but think that maybe that’s exactly what he has done already; what has brought him down a sniveling, sneezing mess, napping on Haruka’s living room couch in the middle of the afternoon. Exasperation swells inside of him then, and he pinches the tip of Makoto’s nose in between his fingers as punishment for never caring enough about himself, and Makoto scrunches his nose up but doesn’t stir.

“Nn, Haru…” he mumbles in his sleep.

“Sorry,” Haruka mouths, if only just to clear his own conscience for scolding Makoto when he’s sick and resting.

“Don’t get in the… tank…” he murmurs on, and Haruka tilts his head to the side in confusion, “That’s for the fish, not for you…”

Haruka exhales in quiet laughter. “Sorry,” he says again, and places a chaste kiss to Makoto’s damp forehead.

* * *

Haruka soon realises — a bit embarrassed by the thought, but still he does not dismiss it — that Makoto being sick gives him plenty of excuses to touch him more than usual.

He shakes his head at himself, knowing full well that if he wanted to touch his boyfriend more often, Makoto would be more than happy to let him. However, it’s simply not in Haruka’s vocabulary to request such an embarrassing thing, so instead he revels in getting to swipe Makoto’s bangs from his face, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead and watching Makoto close his eyes at the contact, dabbing his scorching skin with a wet cloth, clutching his bicep to steady him as he sits up or lies down, holding his hand on his way to the bathroom, and so on and so forth. Every small instance of physical contact makes his skin tingle as if he’s gracing a thin force field of electricity, shooting beams that explode and scatter over Haruka’s body pleasantly. Each little brush of fingers or arms or knees tickles like an aftershock and it makes him smile. _Makoto_ makes him smile. And Haruka chastises himself for finding so many silver linings in Makoto’s frail condition.

They’re sitting opposite each other underneath the kotatsu table in Haruka’s little dining room, sipping soup that Makoto’s mother came over with half an hour earlier. Makoto claimed his head felt immensely clearer after his two hour nap, although his throat was still sore, his nose clogged, his skin warm and his movements lethargic. But Haruka guesses that clear-headedness is at least one step forward. He hadn’t expected much after only half a day, anyway.

“This is really good,” Haru comments, scooping another spoonful of hot miso soup into his mouth. Makoto nods from opposite him, smiling with his eyes more than his lips, as they are currently occupied with drinking from his glass of water. Haruka loves the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he beams at him like that, and promptly stares into his bowl in a half-hearted attempt at hiding his own smile.

“She has cooked a lot of sick-soup throughout her years,” Makoto laughs, “It’s her own secret recipe. She says she’s worked off of the original one in her cookbook, basically turning it into medicine, except it tastes good. She’s right, too! Once, Ren had a really bad cold, but mom made him eat nothing but her soup all day and he woke up the next morning completely nursed back to health. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Haruka simply hums in affirmation, wondering if it’s really healthy for Makoto to talk this much when he’s sick. “Focus on eating, Makoto.”

“I bet she’d give you the recipe, if we asked her,” Makoto muses, ignoring Haruka’s command.

Haruka simply hums again.

“You know,” Makoto says then, voice a bit softer, “I still think it’d be better for you to be in school, but I really appreciate you being there for me.”

Something about Makoto’s words ring a little too familiarly in Haruka’s ears, and he nearly chokes on his soup. “‘S no problem…” he shrugs. “You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s true,” Makoto chuckles, “Ah, but you always seem to take care of me, to be honest. Even when I’m not sick.”

Haruka shrugs again. “Someone has to. You seem to think it’s your job to take care of everyone but yourself, so.”

Makoto pouts at that, but looks a bit guilty. He utters no argument, so Haruka continues quietly.

“Besides, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“That I’d be here to take care of you.”

“Um, I guess?” Makoto offers, clearly lost on what Haruka’s getting at. Haruka glances up at him through dark eyelashes, watching Makoto swallow a few more spoonfuls of soup before explaining himself further.

“It’s what lovers do, I mean.” Makoto chokes on his soup a bit, and begins to cough. Haruka knows he should feel guilty on behalf of Makoto’s sore throat, but can’t hold back the smirk on his face. He shuffles around the table, taking his bowl and his glass with him to sit flush against Makoto’s side as they eat. Haruka finishes first, and rests his head on Makoto’s shoulder.

“You’re really warm.” Haruka murmurs, closing his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Ah, it’s the soup, I suppose,” Makoto’s voice is a bit wobbly, “And you.”

Haruka exhales sharply in amusement. “You get embarrassed too easily.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk?”

“I am.”

“Oh _really_?”

Haruka glances up at him through narrowed eyes. “ _Yes_.”

Makoto pouts at him again, for what feels like several minutes, before grumbling, “That cool façade may fool others, Haru-chan, but I know how easily flustered you get, and I know _exactly_ how to get you there, too.”

Haruka frowns up at him. He knows he can’t really argue against that, but does so anyway out of sheer stubbornness. “Says the guy who blushes at the word ‘ _lovers’_.”

Makoto keeps his frown, but the scarlet that hues his cheeks is beyond his control, and Haruka smirks widely in triumph. He’s also quite aware of what his smile — no matter the form of it — does to Makoto, and so when the apples of the brunet’s cheeks darken even further, Haruka sadistically grins with teeth, before leaning in to kiss the corner of Makoto’s mouth.

“So unfair…” Makoto whines, but welcomes the soft brush of his boyfriend’s lips. “If I weren’t sick I’d get back at you, but I feel as if I’ll topple over if I move too much right now.”

“Yeah, you should keep still,” Haruka says, resting his chin on Makoto’s shoulder as his eyes travel towards the window. On the other side of it, snow is descending slowly, like little balls of cotton wriggling their way towards the ground. Haruka can’t help but be curious (and a bit devilish, now that he has the upper hand), so he drags his fingertips gingerly up and down Makoto’s spine, tracing every subtly protruding knob, and he asks, “What would you have done?”

Because he knows Makoto was considering something devilish, too, and _devilish_ in their case is always synonymous with _indecent_. And indecent words, Haruka knows, would undoubtedly get Makoto even more flustered, even if he was the one doing the—

“Dirty talk?” Makoto questions, amusement lacing his voice, “ _Please_ , Haru.”

“Won’t fall for that one, huh?” he says, admitting this round a tie.

“No, and I can’t believe you would try this while I’m still eating!”

“Makoto, you once palmed my dick in the middle of the school cafeteria.”

Makoto chokes again, coughs for a few more minutes, and then sneezes five times in a row. Haruka kisses his shoulder lightly before taking his bowl and glass to go put in the sink. As he’s standing inside the kitchen, a drawn-out “ew” can be heard from the other room, and then Makoto’s voice calls out to him hesitantly, words brimming with shame, “Um, Haru, could you bring me some tissues..?”

* * *

As predicted, Makoto goes out like a light early in the evening.

The sun is just beginning to set and Haruka can see him struggling to keep his eyes open as they’re doing math homework by the kotatsu. He allows himself the entertainment without interrupting as Makoto’s eyes keep forgetting to re-open after they’ve closed to blink, and then his head drops forward only to snap back up again; a process that continues until he finally hits his head on the table and Haruka decides that the climax of the show has been reached. He laughs into his hand and Makoto shoots him a confused stare, as if having just woken up from a full night’s sleep. Haruka nudges him lightly in the ribs with his elbow.

“Let’s go sleep,” he says, collecting their books. Makoto looks as if he’s about to protest, but can’t muster anything more articulate than a sigh, and then stands up obediently. He clasps Haruka’s hand in his as if on instinct and allows Haruka to lead him up the stairs and into his bedroom.

They don’t bother with the extra futon that rests undisturbedly in Haruka’s closet; it’s been years since they resigned to sharing a bed when sleeping over. At first, “It’s too much of a hassle,” was just their thin excuse to get to share body warmth with their crushes, but as feelings blossomed further and confessions were made, accepted, reciprocated, it became a given rather than a secret wish.

As soon as Makoto’s head hits the pillow he’s unconscious, and while it’s too early for Haruka to be sleepy yet, he lies down as well. The warmth Makoto radiates envelops him like a strong hug as he scooches close to his body, tucking his head beneath Makoto’s chin. He can’t really tell if Makoto is awake or not as he snakes his arms around Haruka’s middle and nuzzles into his hair, but he welcomes the affection either way.

Drawing patterns over Makoto’s chest with his index finger, Haruka thinks back to all the times he stayed home with Makoto before. Makoto, too, chooses to skip school whenever his boyfriend has come down with something, and Haruka doesn’t care if it’s a mutual _bad habit_ , because he loves that routine of theirs. He doesn’t love being sick in particular, he actually rather despises every aspect of it, but he admittedly does enjoy being doted on by Makoto, and vice versa. He hasn’t actually told Makoto that, though. More so the opposite; Haruka has informed him quite a lot of times that he’s making too much of a fuss, only worsening Haruka’s fever-induced headache. Makoto will apologise profusely, and try not to fret so much, and while Haruka is sincerely relieved when the brunet manages to calm down a bit — making things easier for both of them — he can’t deny how loved he feels when Makoto worries. When Makoto fails at cooking soup for him and ends up calling Mrs. Tachibana for help. When Makoto spills the tea he oh so carefully brewed for his boyfriend, as if the procedure was in the least difficult (which it isn’t, but Makoto makes it so when he’s trembling, trying not to cry as he carries the cup over to a coughing Haruka whom he — in his own words — “absolutely won’t let die! Hang in there, Haru!”) When Makoto tries to take his temperature but ends up stabbing the thermometer against Haruka’s teeth, making him flinch so hard he knocks their foreheads together and he curses under his breath but can’t help but laugh at the apologies that tumble out of Makoto’s mouth like an avalanche. When Makoto finally breaks down in tears apologising to Haruka, holding him tightly as if he has _betrayed_ him, and pleads like a melodramatic kid to be as capable as Haru, because his Haru never messes up, his Haru is perfect, his Haru is what makes Makoto want to be a better person, and before Haruka can even begin to reassure him Makoto speaks up again, telling him, “It’s alright though, I’ll definitely keep doing my best because Haru deserves it, Haru deserves way more than that even, but it’s all I can give for now,” and Haruka wishes he’ll get better soon because he suddenly gets this unbearable urge to kiss his sweet, gentle, clumsy, _perfect_ Makoto.

Haruka remembers how he, in lieu of pressing their lips together and inevitably making Makoto sick as well, clutched Makoto’s shoulders so tightly his knuckles went white and told Makoto that he’s _not_ going to die, Makoto just has to _calm down_ because in this day and age, an otherwise healthy young man like Haruka isn’t going to pass from a _fever_ , and Makoto is absolutely perfect just the way he is, even as a spluttering, teary-eyed mess trying too hard to be other people’s living medicine.

Haruka can’t forget that, seeing as it was probably the most dramatic cold he’s ever endeavoured. He didn’t understand at the time why Makoto reacted so ridiculously to something as simple as a tiny fever, but as it were, the boy had been coaxed into watching a horror movie just the week before by Ran (who, _conveniently_ , had developed an almost macabre interest in horror movies) in which the main character thinks she suffers from a mere cold but is actually possessed by a demon. She ends up killing her entire family, her best friend and her boyfriend, and while the ending was pretty vague, her own suicide was heavily implied. Makoto had explained that while he understood Haruka was not possessed by a demon, he couldn’t help the way his hands quaked and dropped the cup as Haruka coughed into his fist just the way the girl had done in the beginning of that horrid film.

Haruka was sure from then on that Makoto was the most precious human being on Earth. And also, perhaps, the most ridiculous one.

The fabric of Makoto’s t-shirt bunches up in tiny swirls as Haruka’s fingertip roams in circles over it. He listens to the indistinct little noises Makoto makes as he dreams, trying to make out what words are trying but failing to form on Makoto’s tongue. The warm, quiet atmosphere lulls him to sleep after what he guesses to be an hour or so, and he ends up waking up rather early the next day. He squirms a bit uncomfortably, sweaty from still being fully dressed beneath the cover and wrapped up in Makoto’s solid embrace. Makoto himself is absolutely scorching, and Haruka panics internally as he presses his hand against the boy’s forehead and realises he could quite literally grill mackerel on it.

Haruka sits up, blinking rapidly as his eyes struggle to adapt to the intruding beam of sunrise. As soon as he’s sure he can stand up without falling over again, he reaches towards the window to whisk it open, letting fresh winter air into the room. Next he hurries out to get a glass of water for his still sleeping patient, and places it a bit forcefully on the nightstand, causing liquid to flick over the edge and onto the wooden surface. Haruka ignores it though, instead shaking Makoto’s shoulder and calling his name quietly, cautiously. He’s _not_ panicking, thank you very much, but he will admit to releasing a rather large breath once Makoto cracks an eye open and moans indignantly at the disturbance.

“You’re burning up,” Haru says, tugging at the collar of Makoto’s shirt so as to fan his abdomen a bit, for emphasis. Makoto touches his forehead with a grimace, a sob tearing from his raspy throat. “Sit up, I’ll help you undress.”

Makoto takes his time sitting up against the wall, head falling back and rolling from side to side as he whines. Haruka slips the t-shirt off of him as swiftly as he can, followed by his socks and pants, before heading to the kitchen to get a painkiller for him. Makoto tears up from gratefulness when Haruka returns with the pill, and gulps it down together with the rest of the wide glass’ contents.

Haruka sits down on the side of the bed again, combing his fingers through Makoto’s matted hair. He doesn’t ask him how he’s feeling, thinks it’s evident enough; instead he advices him to go back to sleep. Makoto seems to think it’s a good idea, thanks Haruka with a squeeze to his hand, and slides back down beneath the covers.

Haruka leaves once he’s certain the brunet has dozed off again, taking a long shower and making breakfast for himself. He eats in silence, freezing at every subtle creak and churn of the old house as he anticipates the moment Makoto wakes up a second time, in need of his helping hand in order to even get out of bed. Haruka thinks to himself, as he’s rummaging through his kitchen drawers for cough medicine, that Makoto’s cold is probably a lot worse than it was yesterday. He hopes this is it peaking, though, and that tomorrow things will look better. Makoto’s colds are always much worse than Haruka’s, and he can’t even begin to imagine the hell his boyfriend is going through, but he’s prepared to do his best to aid him in it.

Makoto sleeps for hours, and eventually Haruka gets bored of waiting and settles down by the kotatsu, once again with math homework spread out in front of him. Nothing makes him feel as if he’s going to slip into a coma from boredom as much as math does, but there isn’t much else to do at the moment. He would engage in something more enjoyable like watching a movie, playing video games, reading or taking a bath, but he really wants to be all ears in case Makoto stirs from upstairs.

Haruka works diligently for a solid hour, and only has two equations left to solve when an anguished moan pierces his focus. The voice calling out for him is awfully husky, so Haruka grabs the cough syrup on his way upstairs.

 

“Haruuu,” Makoto whines his name, dragging the last syllable out like an old vinyl record stuck on repeat, “I feel like I’m still dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Haruka assures him bluntly, focusing on getting the exact amount of recommended cough syrup into the little plastic cup that came with the bottle. “You’re awake now, although your fever is very high.”

“Is that why I’m dizzy?”

“Mm.”

“How can I be sure you’re telling the truth?” Makoto squints at him suspiciously, even goes as far as to point a finger at him, although his limbs are weak and so his accusatory gesture falls flat, the digit trembling pathetically in the air. “You look just like you do in my dreams, how can I be sure I’m not still in a dream? Ah, you always look the same in my dreams as you do in real life, Haru, do you know why?”

Suddenly Makoto has a grin on his face, even with his running nose and puffy eyes revealing his miserable state. It’s wide and relaxed and Haruka can’t help but think he looks sort of high. He holds the cough syrup out to Makoto and shakes his head in response to his question, but instead of accepting the offer (read: command), Makoto wraps his fingers around Haruka’s narrow wrist and brings it closer to himself, resting Haruka’s hand with the little cup in it against his chest.

“Because there is no better version of Haru than the one he is,” Makoto looks so damn pleased with himself it almost nullifies the flattery, Haruka thinks, “Not even in the most amazing dreams can I come up with a better version of Haru-chan…” he finishes quietly, almost bashfully, and plays with the sleeve of Haruka’s turquoise sweater as he breathes heavily through a stuffy airway. His nose makes a faint whistling sound when he breathes through his nostrils.

Haruka is quite grateful that the boy is keeping his gaze low, intently locked with the work his fingers are doing as they fold and unfold the edge of the sleeve, because despite knowing it’s Makoto’s fever talking, his face is so warm it makes his eyes tear up. He knows that, while Makoto may not be able to voice such sentiments with a straight face, it sounds undoubtedly like something Makoto would _think_. Which he probably has. And now, with his senses clouded and his mind disheveled, Makoto voices this thought.

Haruka knows, without a doubt, that although the words are ridiculous and embarrassing and fever-induced, they are _sincere_. Only Makoto, that unabashed rom-com script of a human, would be so nauseatingly sweet, and only Haruka, oddly victimized and blessed at the same time, would be the target of his boundless affections.

He kind of wants to pinch Makoto’s nose in punishment again, but contradicts himself by also wanting to taste those words on his lips. He ends up pressing the cup of cough syrup against Makoto’s cheek instead.

“Drink this,” he mutters, “It’s for your throat.”

Makoto wells up at the offer, and finally takes the small plastic cup in between his large hands, downing its contents as if they were taking shots. He grimaces as his senses register the taste, and then he sneezes twice into the hollow of his cupped hands.

Haruka winces at the sight, before grabbing a few tissues to wipe his hands off. “Don’t do that, you’ll get germs on everything you touch.”

“I’m sorry, Haru…” he mumbles guiltily.

“It’s okay,” says Haru, feeling as if he’s talking to Ren rather than Makoto. He then notices that Makoto is blinking an awful lot, eyelids looking heavier than lead, and he gets up to fetch… Well, whatever he can find that might ease Makoto’s misery; more tissues, more water, another painkiller, cough syrup, a damp cloth… Mostly, Haruka needs a reason to tear his eyes away from Makoto, because the boy looks about half-dead already and it makes Haruka feel as if _he’s_ the sick one. Haruka doesn’t get very far, however, before the brunet clutches the back of his sweater. The grip is so weak he probably wouldn’t have reacted to it, were it not for the years of Makoto gripping the back of Haruka’s shirt whenever he was scared, or simply sleeping beside him. Years of experience has turned into a sixth sense.

He turns his head and Makoto looked up at him through terrified, faintly red eyes, and Haruka flinches at the sight, before tipping his head to the side in silent perplexity. He can see the way Makoto’s thoughts swirl together behind his skull, like intangible tendrils slipping through his fingers. Disorienting him. Haruka wants to help puzzle them back together, but knows that all he can do is try to wring the virus out of him, which is easier said than done.

“I’m just going to get you some more water,” he explains, and Makoto coughs in response. It sounds mucoid, and Haruka’s face contorts in disgust. “And tissues.”

When he returns, Makoto looks asleep, having made a little cove of pillows and nestled into it. Haruka watches him inhale and exhale in an irregular rhythm, brow wrinkled in distress, before finally setting the box of tissues and the water bottle down on the nightstand and kneeling before the bed. He leans his arms on the mattress, peeking at Makoto from across his cushion wall.

Before he knows it, he’s drifting off, too.

He wakes up after not more than ten minutes, although it feels like his nap lasted for a minimum of five years. What stirs him is Makoto’s soft hand brushing the top of his head, and he yawns, glancing up at the boy petting him like a kitten. Makoto has stuffed both his nostrils with tissues, but still doesn’t look particularly healthy. His eyes are kind of swollen, and his face is flushed. Yet he’s smiling at Haruka, caressing his hair despite the way his limbs quiver at even the smallest of exertion.

“How are you feeling?” Haruka asks just as Makoto opens his mouth, and the latter closes it again. He lets out a raspy groan of agony instead of bothering to form actual words, and Haruka leans into his touch as the hand lowers to cup his face. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I drank all the water,” Makoto says, looking as if it’s taking all of his energy just to get that one short sentence out, which probably isn’t too far from the truth.

“I’ll get you some more,” Haru says, standing up, “Do you want some cough drops? I’m not sure if I have any but I could run down to the store if you need them.”

Makoto shakes his head, pauses, and then shakes it again. “I don’t want you to leave me,” he says apologetically, “But maybe I could ask mom to come over with some after work?”

Haruka nods. “Sure, I’ll call her later.”

He takes the water bottle, but once again, hasn’t taken more than two steps before he can feel his shirt straining around him, Makoto’s frail fingers curling around a handful of the blue fabric.

“Haru,” Makoto whines, “Could you help me up? I need to go to the bathroom, and I’m really hungry; maybe we could eat something?”

Haruka contemplates this. He really thinks Makoto should stay in bed, but then again, he can’t exactly deny him access to the toilet, and so he puts the bottle back down on the nightstand and drapes Makoto’s limp arm over his shoulders, hoisting the boy up on his knees. Makoto steps down onto the floor, but latches onto Haruka for dear life the moment his weight is put on his legs.

“ _Ah_ ,” he winces, squeezing his eyes shut, “Dizzy…”

“It’s alright, take it easy,” Haruka tells him, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist to secure him. “Breathe.”

A weak laugh escapes Makoto and he lays his head against Haruka’s shoulder. “It’s like I’m dying,” he muses. Haruka doesn’t think the notion is in the least humorous, however, and frowns stubbornly, eyes straight ahead of them.

“You’re not dying,” he deadpans, “You could probably use some nutrition though, come on. I’ll bring your food upstairs.”

“Thank you, Haru,” he coos, nuzzling his face against Haruka’s neck, “You’re so kind and pretty.”

Haruka purses his lips and grunts curtly in response to that.

Once Makoto’s vision stops spinning, he succeeds in walking by himself all the way to the bathroom. He keeps a tense grip of Haruka’s hand just in case, though, and sways a bit as they make their way between the rooms. But he manages just fine on his own otherwise, and is smiling proudly as he walks out again to grab a hold of the other boy’s fingers once more.

Haruka then leads him back to the bedroom, a little hesitant to leave him alone, even though he’s only going downstairs briefly to grab some food. The growling of Makoto’s stomach spurs him into action, however, and he heads downstairs, quickly retrieving a thermometer and a painkiller, before throwing a sandwich together — knowing that Makoto can't eat warm soup if they're going to take his temperature.

Makoto struggles a bit as he eats, having to stop to blow his nose every other bite, or cough violently into the crease of his arm. Other times he’ll pause to pinch the bridge of his nose with a pained expression, or say something completely incoherent that really makes Haruka wish he’d hurry up and finish his food so he can take Makoto’s temperature. He says the most random things — anything that pops into his mind, really — and seems to be having mild hallucinations, too. Haruka has never had a fever high enough to make him delusional, so he’s not quite sure what to do. He knows, however, that it’s nothing dangerous as long as his temperature stays well below forty degrees celsius. He’s anxious while Makoto eats, and can’t do much but watch him silently, scrunching his nose up whenever Makoto’s blows his own, and tap his foot restlessly against the floorboards. The moment the brunet sets the plate down on the nightstand, Haruka’s intends to shove the thermometer into his mouth in replacement of the sandwich, but Makoto grabs his hand gently before he can. His fingers curl around Haruka’s fist clutching the thermometer, and he beckons Haruka closer. Despite his confusion, Haruka leans in and allows Makoto to slide a hand to the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. His green eyes slide shut in contentment, and Haruka can’t help but flinch at the warmth of his face.

“I think you might be sick, too, Haru-chan,” Makoto murmurs in a softly cheerful voice, absolutely uncharacteristic to the rest of his sniveling, shivering self. “So warm…”

“Idiot,” Haruka breathes, “That’s just you.”

He can feel the way his own normal temperature contrast starkly against the brunet’s scorching skin. Yet, he sits still on the bed beside the boy. Keeping their foreheads connected, he lets Makoto cool himself down, Haruka his makeshift ice pack.

Seconds pass. They turn into minutes, into eternities, maybe — Haruka’s not quite sure, doesn’t really care either way, because Makoto seems to be enjoying the cool touch and right now, Makoto’s well-being is his main priority.

Eventually the brunet speaks up, “I love you a lot, Haru,” he says gently. Once again, Haruka knows it’s the fever talking, but that doesn’t stop heat from rushing to his face, most probably rendering him completely useless to Makoto’s sweaty skin, now.

Haruka swallows thickly. It’s not like he hasn’t heard this before — in fact, he hears it almost daily by now — but the intimacy of the words, the sincerity of the words, they prick his skin like needles.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, shivering as Makoto’s fingers play with the hair falling down the back of his head. “You need to let me take your temperature, though.”

“Okay,” Makoto nods, their joined foreheads making Haruka nod involuntarily as well, “Anything you want me to. You take such good care of me.”

Haruka sits back and tries not to listen as Makoto goes on, because if he allows himself to fully register the words slipping from his lips, the shaking of his fingers as he raises the thermometer towards Makoto’s mouth will only worsen.

“I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve Haru,” he sighs almost dreamily, “Loving, caring, responsible Haru…”

“Hush, Makoto,” replies the dark-haired boy, trying hard to sound strict but having his voice betray him by faltering, breaking slightly at the last syllable.

“I think you’re so pretty…”

Haruka rolls his eyes. Yeah, it’s definitely the fever talking. Although he doesn’t doubt for a second that the fever is scrambling through Makoto’s thoughts, shoving the most embarrassing ones it can find right through Makoto’s mouth, rather than making up fake ones on its own. But that knowledge only makes it all the worst. Haruka shoves the thermometer a bit too roughly in between his lips, absent-mindedly feeling his own face with his free hand and noting that, wow, his cheeks have gone pretty hot, too.

“Ow,” Makoto pouts around the thermometer, “Be gentle, Haru-chan.”

“Thirty-nine...” mutters Haruka once green digits light up the digital screen. It’s high, but not hospital-high, and so he sighs in relief and sits back on the mattress. Makoto sucks on the thermometer like a lollipop.

“Is it serious?” he asks, “It must be, I can’t taste anything.”

Haruka bites his lips suppressing his laughter. “That’s because you’re biting down on a plastic stick.”

“Yuck,” Makoto says, taking the thermometer out and turning it over in his hands for examination. “Ah, I feel dizzy again. Are there any other popsicle flavours? I don’t like this one.”

“Maybe you should try to sleep again.”

Makoto makes a pained face. “Haru, I can’t smell anything either, my nose is clogged.”

“Do you want me to ask your mom to bring nasal spray?”

“I can’t taste anything...” he says again, either ignoring or failing to register the other boy’s question, “I miss tasting tangerines, I miss tasting mom’s miso soup, I miss tasting Haru.”

Haruka tilts his head to the side a little, offering a look of sympathy. As ridiculous as the words tumbling from Makoto’s tongue are, Haruka agrees. He hates that he can’t kiss him. Or more so, hates that he can, but shouldn’t. Hates that it would be kind of disgusting. Kissing Makoto should never be disgusting; it should never be anything but _breathtaking_. And not in the sense that Makoto’s airways are all clogged.

Haruka leans over to the nightstand where a few of the cough drops he found deep in a kitchen cupboard and brought back to Makoto have fallen out of their little plastic bag. He takes one, unwraps it and pops it into Makoto’s mouth. Makoto looks hopeful, but his eyes fall low when he realises he can’t taste the honey flavoured pill either. Then, he glances up at Haruka and snivels. Haruka grimaces at the nasty sound of it.

“Can we kiss, Haru?” he asks innocently, and Haruka’s hand moves on its own accord, cupping Makoto’s face sweetly. It almost hurts, having to shake his head at the request.

“You’ll get phlegm all over me.”

Makoto lets out an indignant sob, “Ew, Haru, don’t say ‘phlegm’.”

A hint of a smile graces Haruka’s features. “Sorry,” he mumbles amusedly.

 

Later that evening, Haruka calls Mrs. Tachibana, squeezing his nose shut with his fingers and forcing out fake coughs every now and then. He lets her know about Makoto’s slightly jumbled state of mind, but she says that he almost always either gets completely disoriented, throws up or passes out. Haruka is suddenly rather thankful that he only has to deal with some embarrassing lines and, for short haphazard periods, hallucinations.

She asks about his own health and he tells her that compared to Makoto, he’s fine, really. Which, technically, isn’t a lie.

“I’ll come by tomorrow with some more soup for you boys, okay?” says Mrs. Tachibana over the phone, and Haruka coughs, as if emphasising their need for her magical concoction.

 

Early in the afternoon the next day, Haruka and Makoto are both curled up on the living room couch, watching a documentary about deep sea life. It’s in English and without subtitles, so they don’t really understand much, but Haruka is happy to just watch the jellyfish swim around, algae and coral reefs bursting with colour in the background. Makoto seems content to just rest, and to have Haruka close to him even if the latter still refuses him any mouth-to-mouth kisses. His fever has gone down one degree, but while he’s no longer seeing blue swirls coming out of his boyfriend’s azure irises to dance around the room, or hearing illusive instrumental music being played backwards (which might have been the creepiest thing Haruka has ever heard of), he’s still nowhere near _healthy_. His nose is stuffed with tissue paper again, and he’s forced to breathe noisily through his mouth, but Haruka doesn’t mind much. The rhythmic exhales against his neck are rather soothing, actually.

Every now and then, Makoto will close his eyes and alternate between sleeping soundly and mumbling to himself in some sort of in-between state of awake and unconscious. It only lasts for a few minutes before he yawns and wakes up for real again, planting a kiss to the back of Haruka’s neck from where he lies behind him on the sofa, all the while they watch the clownfish and the sea horses on screen with half-hearted interest.

Right by the end of the documentary, as Makoto goes into another round of their sleep-wake-kiss routine, there is a knock on the front door. Haruka drags himself off the couch, shivering as he parts from Makoto’s warm body. He walks into the hall and opens the door to Mrs. Tachibana, completely forgetting that he, too, is supposed to be sick. He puts up no act what so ever, letting her inside as she asks questions about her son’s state. Haruka explains that, well, he’s not as delirious as the day before, but he’s still pretty miserable.

“Would you like some coffee, or tea?” Haruka asks, and Mrs. Tachibana nods in thanks with a soft hand to the back of his head, touch delicate in a familiarly parental way.

She is carrying a basket with her, and she hands it to Haruka while taking her snow-covered coat and shoes off in the hallway. “There’s herbal tea in there, you can brew some of that,” she says, eyes closing in a sweet smile, “Oh, there’s also cough drops, miso soup, nasal spray and tangerines.”

“Thank you,” Haruka says, offering a smile of his own.

He walks into the kitchen to put the products into cabinets while Makoto’s mother crouches down beside the living room couch to greet her son and feel his forehead. After a few minutes, she enters the kitchen to help Haruka out with the tea. She most definitely knows that not only is Haruka a prodigy in the kitchen much alike he is in the water, but also, tea-making is a pretty basic concept. Haruka allows her to mostly take over anyway, knowing it’s just out of habit. He then hears his name being called by a hoarse voice in the next room, and both Mrs. Tachibana and he turns at the sound. She smiles at him almost encouragingly as he exits the kitchen, and she can’t help but peek over her shoulder, watching Haruka kneel before the couch with soft and attentive eyes as he strokes her son’s hair from his face.

Haruka says something then, but it’s so quiet she can’t make out what it is. The top of Makoto’s head can be seen where it lies against the couch’s arm rest, and he shakes his head at whatever Haruka just told him. The dark-haired boy smiles then; a fond and tender curve of his lips that she can’t remember seeing before. She hasn’t failed to notice that, unlike her own son, Haruka is very frugal with his smiles and she usually only spots them when he’s being polite. Seeing it like this, however, unguarded and brimming with adoration, brings a smile to her own lips as well.

Haruka’s hand stops petting Makoto’s sandy brown hair to rest against his cheek, and she can make out from where she’s standing, his lips mouthing “ _Love you,_ ” but they are still too far apart for her to actually hear the words. Suddenly, she feels as if she’s seen too much, and turns back to pour the hot water into three cups, the grin splitting her cheeks exceptionally hard to repress.

* * *

“Just call me again if you need anything, alright?” says Mrs. Tachibana, buttoning her coat up and securing a thick scarf around her neck, even though she’s only walking down a flight of stairs to get back inside.

Haruka nods at her, “I think we have everything we need for now. I’ll call you when he gets better, and— _oh_ ,” he stops, suddenly remembering that he’s _allegedly_ sick, too.

Well. That whole masquerade is over now, he thinks, but still forces out a cough against his fist as if on instinct. Mrs. Tachibana simply smiles and tips her head to the side, before reaching out to ruffle his hair a bit.

“I hope I’ll hear from you soon, then,” she says sweetly, although her voice is laced with a faint slyness. She turns towards the door, hand grabbing a hold of the knob but not turning it. Instead, she looks back at the dark-haired boy and says, “Oh, and Haruka,”

He wordlessly blinks his wide, cobalt eyes at her.

“You don’t have to fake a cold to get to stay home with him, you know. I know the two of you.”

Haruka gulps, embarrassment and relief both coiling around him at once, strangling, suffocating his ability to speak.

“Take good care of him.” She then says, and winks at him once before walking out the door.

 

The next morning, Haruka wakes himself by sneezing so hard his upper body curls forwards, head banging into the side of the nightstand. He rubs his forehead with a scowl on his face, before realising what just happened.

“Oh no,” he says, sitting up in bed. Makoto stirs beside him, rubbing his squinting eyes with a fist.

“What’s wrong, Haru?”

“Makoto,” Haru said, panic in his voice, “I just _sneezed_.”

“Yeah, so? I’ve been doing it all— _oh no_.”

They’re quick to get up from the bed, preparing hot soup and herbal tea for breakfast. Makoto is feeling a lot better, and before they eat he checks his temperature, which has gone down to thirty-eight degrees. Haruka’s is a normal body temperature, but his nose is still itchy and his eyes a bit sore. While still making sure to take good care of Makoto, Haruka allows his boyfriend to force him into layers, and obeys when he’s told, “Take it easy, and don’t exert yourself. I can go get the nasal spray in the next room by myself now, you know.”

He’s already stayed home with Makoto for three whole days and knows that they can’t afford many more, lest they fall behind in all their classes. Haruka really doesn’t feel like spending all his evenings studying until they’re caught up, so he makes sure to fill himself up with soup and tea until he feels as if it has replaced all the water in his body.

 

“Don’t worry, Haru,” Makoto says as Haruka fills his tub with steaming water, “If you get sick too, I’ll nurse you right back to health like you did me.”

“You’re not healthy yet, Makoto,” Haruka says matter-of-factly, dipping his hand into the bath to feel its temperature.

Makoto rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m _better_. And it’s all thanks to you. And mom’s soup, I guess.”

“Do you think it’s warm enough?” Haruka asks him then, looking at Makoto over his shoulder. Makoto takes a step closer, leaning over to touch the water surface delicately with his long fingers. He retracts them almost instantly.

“Ouch! It’s a little _too_ hot, if you ask me…”

“Perfect,” Haruka replies, grabbing the hems of his three shirts and pulling them up over his head. But despite how experienced Haruka is in the business of stripping to get into water, even this is too difficult for him to manage. The shirts inevitably get stuck over his head. He keeps tugging, but nearly falls over into the bathtub in the process, and so Makoto stops his giggling into the palm of his hand to help his boyfriend undress.

“Hold on, Haru,” he says, a huge smile still splitting his cheeks. He manages to peel the shirts off of Haruka’s head, and a disheveled mop of black hair pops out. “Hi there,” says Makoto, leaning in to peck the tip of Haruka’s nose which, even through the dark hair thrown across his face, shines brightly scarlet from the embarrassed blush blanketing Haruka’s features.

“Hey,” Haruka mutters back, slipping his arms out of the bundle of fabric and tossing his shirts to the floor. Next goes the pants, socks and underwear, and then he’s fully seated in the tub.

Makoto spends a moment coughing and sneezing, before he glances down at Haruka in the tub and bites his bottom lip. “Maybe I should wait for you to get out before I—”

“Makoto, do we have to go through this every time?” Haruka says, eyes closed in relaxation, “Yes, we both fit; it’s a large tub. And no, you’re not imposing on my ‘ _precious bath time’_ , because I want you here.”

“O-Okay, then,” Makoto stammers, and strips as well.

As kids, they’d take baths together all the time, but back then, they were small enough to _play_ in the bath, while nowadays there’s not much room for anything but sitting adjacent to each other with their knees pulled in. Haruka seems content enough with that though, hugging his legs to his chest and letting his head fall back. Makoto sneezes again and sinks a bit farther down in the tub, grateful now for the intense heat of the water.

“Ah, this is nice,” he sighs, mimicking Haruka as his head rests against the edge of the bathtub and his eyes close. Haruka hums in agreement. “Do you really think a bath is a good way to get rid of a cold, though? Won’t it get worse?”

“Baths are good for everything,” is Haruka’s firm reply.

Makoto exhales sharply in amusement, “Even when you need drying up after a rainstorm?”

Haruka opens one eye to glare at him from across the tub. “Don’t be a smartass,” he says, nudging his knee against Makoto’s.

The brunet laughs and searches for Haruka’s hand beneath the surface of the warm water. He finds it and intertwines their fingers. Suddenly, he feels almost excruciatingly sleepy, and he thinks that Haruka’s thumb caressing circles across the back of his hand could lull him to sleep right then and there, but he won’t let himself go unconscious in the bath. No matter how many times Haruka claims to have done it, he does not trust it is safe.

Despite knowing Haruka likes things calm and quiet when he’s in the water, Makoto needs to keep himself awake somehow, and so he decides to try striking up a conversation.

“Haru,” he says quietly, awaiting the affirmative hum he knows is coming before continuing, “Thanks again for taking such good care of me.”

As Haruka’s head is thrown back, Makoto can clearly see him swallowing before he replies, “Haven’t you said enough sappy things already?”

Makoto chuckles, index finger brushing against his chin sheepishly, “Ah, sorry if I said anything weird yesterday.”

Haruka’s head snaps up at that. “You mean, you don’t remember any of the things you said?”

Makoto shrugs. “Um, it’s kind of vague? I remember having a lot of thoughts, but I’m not sure which ones I actually voiced, you know.”

A pout makes its way onto Haruka’s face. “All of them,” he mutters and turns his head away. Makoto simply laughs from opposite him.

“Sorry,” he says, “If I made you uncomfortable.”

Haruka shrugs and squeezes his hand under the water.

He’s been trying not to replay all those unabashed lines in his mind to the best of his ability, but there’s one that simply won’t leave him alone. Makoto wondering — actually _asking_ what he could have possibly done to _deserve_ Haruka, had baffled him more than anything. He worries that that was as sincere as some of the other things the brunet had spewed out. Does he really think he has to earn Haruka? That, if he falters, he is no longer worthy? The thought saddens Haruka to no end, and he wishes he were bold enough to ask Makoto about it, but keeps it in. It would only make both of them uncomfortable, he reasons, and Haruka doesn’t think he’s good enough with words to rectify Makoto’s mindset anyway. Rather than that, he trusts himself with actions, and opts for showing the brunet that if it’s a question of deserving, there’s no grander candidate than him. Even if his strength, his balance and his self-sacrificing sways, there’s no pedestal for him to topple down from.

Haruka brings their joined hands up from the water and rests them on top of his left knee, fiddling with Makoto’s fingers. He knows that it may have just been pointless gibberish, perhaps an exaggeration of what he really feels, or perhaps just something much less problematic than what Haruka is making it, just poorly worded. He knows, all too well, that he’s probably looking into things more than he should, but he can’t shake the distress that drapes over him like an extra layer of skin. He can’t live with the possibility of Makoto thinking himself any less than Haruka, not when Makoto is the most incredible person he knows. Not when there’s enough kindness and purity in him to make up for all the cruelty that exists in everyone else.

Haruka finds himself nearly angry. Furious, almost, from the notion that Makoto would under any circumstances be anything but impeccable, anything but _worthy_. From the idea that he himself does not see what Haruka sees, if the possibility of truth in his fever-induced words are anything to go by.

He releases Makoto’s hand to grab the boy’s knees, pulling his legs apart and leaning forwards. He hovers over Makoto who looks absolutely petrified, both of them ignoring the water that sloshes onto the tiles of the floor. The brunet blinks up at him, before mumbling his name in puzzlement, and Haruka groans, infuriated that he still shouldn’t kiss Makoto. Shouldn’t. Can, but shouldn’t. It’s the worst type of torture.

He dives in to press his lips against Makoto’s flushed cheek instead, then his jawline, his ear, the front and the back and the side of his neck, making Makoto squirm and giggle as Haruka’s lips fleet across his skin.

“Haru, we’re _supposed_ to be sick here,” he says between laughter, but doesn’t make a move in order to stop the lavishing of kisses, “What brought this on? Haru..!”

The dark-haired boy has now stopped to suck and nip at the fine skin below Makoto’s ear, knowing full well how sensitive he tends to be there, and where his current mischief is going to take them. Haruka isn’t in the least surprised when a hoarse moan tears from the boy beneath him, and as one of his hands makes to caress the parts of him his mouth can’t currently reach what with their positions, Makoto clutches onto his sides, arching his neck backwards to grant Haruka better access.

One of Haruka’s hands is busy steadying him, palm flat against the tub’s bottom, and so he lets the other trail across Makoto’s abdomen, over his waist and his ribs, to finally settle for tweaking and rubbing at his chest.

“Haru, are you sure that this… _Ah—_!”

With his lips still working its way down the skin of Makoto’s raspy throat, his hand leaves his nipples perky and sensitive from the rough contact to take care of the _prominence_ farther south. One of Makoto’s hands flies to encircle Haruka’s wrist, however, seizing him before he can continue his misconduct.

“Haruka,” he says desperately, and said boy glances up at the surprising usage of his full name, “Are you listening to me? We shouldn’t… You know…”

“It’s fine,” Haruka shakes his head, “I wasn’t planning to… put it in.”

If Makoto’s face wasn’t flushed enough before, it is now doubtlessly red like a firetruck. The hand not keeping a secure grip of Haruka’s own travels up to cover Makoto’s face in embarrassment. “You put it so bluntly...”

“I wish I could kiss you,” Haru says, ignoring Makoto’s whine, “ _Really_ kiss you.”

Makoto removes his hand from his face and looks at Haruka for a moment before bursting into a wide smile, making his eyes squint in a way that nearly conceals the green of them altogether. “It’s been a long three days, huh?” he says, and Haruka can’t help but smile back at him.

He kisses the corner of Makoto’s mouth, heart swelling in his chest like an air balloon, before he tugs his arm captured in Makoto’s grasp a bit, as if asking for permission. Hesitantly, Makoto’s fingers uncurl and settle on Haruka’s hip. Haruka can feel them trembling faintly, but he’s not sure if it’s from anticipation or the fact that Makoto still has a very indisputable cold.

His hand winds loosely around his boyfriend’s cock and squeezes, eliciting a moan from low within Makoto’s throat. Haruka smiles, resting his cheek against Makoto’s, and starts moving his hand up and down at a languid pace. Makoto bites his bottom lip hard, whining as keenness swirls within him, coiling through his blood to his muscles and relaxing him completely, save for his hips which buck up into the touch jerkily.

He rasps out Haruka’s name with every breath, kissing his cheekbone and dragging his lips softly over his jawline as every thrust against Haruka’s palm draws sounds of pleasure from him.

“You too, Haru,” he whispers into his ear, reaching down to still the movement of Haruka’s hand. The dark-haired boy looks at him quizzically, but understands as Makoto guides his fingers over both of their shafts.

Haruka’s palms aren’t as big as Makoto’s, and so his grip around both of them, fully erect, is a bit taut. However, as they start to rub against each other, his slender fingers keeping them together, Makoto can’t find any reason to complain. The strained hold that Haruka has of both of their cocks creates friction that renders Makoto unable of making any more sounds. His mouth falls ajar, gasping huskily against the side of Haruka’s face and listening intently to the bashful mewls falling from his lover’s lips. The back of his neck aches a bit from the hard surface of the tub, but the warm water eases the soreness from his muscles before it can become a bother to him. And what’s more, the pleasure that Haruka’s slim fingers and swollen cock evokes in him subdues his senses. Before he knows it he’s got his arms tightly around Haruka’s middle, holding on to him for dear life. He thrusts irregularly and hides his face in the curve of Haruka’s neck, biting down on a collarbone as he comes, his head misty with pleasure and his heart pulsating frantically against the walls of his chest.

“Haruka…” he breathes out as he descends from his high, almost like an afterthought, and then said boy is tensing above him, breath hitching and hand trembling almost violently around them both.

Once Haruka lets go, all energy seems to be drained from him and he slumps against Makoto, who keeps his arms wrapped snugly around him. He kisses the crown of Haruka’s head, suppressing the itching urge to cough as the exertion has made his throat burn and tickle. His limbs feel heavy, too, and he realises that this was probably not the best idea they’ve ever had, but still can’t find it within himself to regret it.

“Haru,” Makoto mumbles sleepily, fingers brushing up and down Haruka’s spine, soft to the touch like a tickling feather, “Can I kiss you now?” he then says, face heating up once more at how needy he sounds.

Rather than answering, Haruka heaves himself up on his arms and collides his lips with Makoto’s. The latter’s hands come up to hold Haruka’s face gently, and they alternate between lazy nibbles and deep, thorough kisses for a good five minutes. Haruka slips his tongue inside Makoto’s mouth, and a few low moans as well, before parting with a loud _pop_ that should probably put them both to shame, but doesn’t really.

“I was probably going to get sick anyway,” Haruka shrugs, and proceeds to make up for the seventy-two hours Makoto’s lips were not on his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> because maki asked for a 10k sickfic and dammit i couldn't resist  
> dear maki, fight me,
> 
> also, the fic title is from the song 'Medicine' by The 1975 (bc WOW how unusual for joni to use a quote as a title!!!) and if you haven't listened to it yet, you really should.


End file.
